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6. A Super Secret Admirer Sends Me a Gift

"Are you with us, Inari?" asked my boss, Ms. Neil, a no-nonsense brunette who had crushed expectations by becoming the first female editor of the London Weekly Observer—at thirty.

I blinked a few times and refocused on the meeting taking place. A dozen other employees and I sat around a table discussing the importance of stirring content. The conversation was putting me to sleep. "Yes, Ma'am," I said. "My apologies."

"Good," said Ms. Neil. She turned back to the mockup board of the next edition.

I studied the meeting agenda in front of me, but I couldn't seem to read more than five words without zoning out. If only I had gotten more sleep last night instead of lying awake thinking about a certain handsome Corvette-owner. As long as I wasn't called on to speak, I was safe. I had already completed and turned in my article.

The meeting ended, and I slunk back to my desk, debating whether or not to leave. Since my work was finished, I was technically done for the day, but I was afraid that if I left before everyone else, my coworkers would judge me.

I told myself that I was being silly. Yet I stayed.

There were eight of us in this room seated in two rows of cubicles facing each other. The noise from the other workrooms filtered down the hall: keyboards clacking, a paper shredder buzzing two doors down, people chatting. The file cabinet in the corner of the office had one drawer ajar, and the imperfection caught my eye whenever I looked in that direction.

I opened my browser and searched for Sergio Genovesi. Was I a creeper? Possibly. But as The Paladin Prophecy taught me, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that sorry is better than safe.

There was a Sergio Genovesi in Kansas whose Facebook page was full of tractors and a pretty blonde woman named Jamie. I moved on. I found a reference to an S. Genovesi on a wine appreciation site. Apparently, he had a modest but successful vineyard in Italy. I could see my Sergio owning a vineyard, but I couldn't be sure they were the same person.

There wasn't much more than that. Antonio Genovesi was a scholar who had lived in the 1700s. Sergio Giordano was twelve.

What had I expected? A police report? 'Notorious outlaw Sergio Genovesi continues killing spree, picking up girls at bookstores and leaving their bodies in ditches.'

Vaguely relieved that I hadn't discovered anything of the kind, I logged off the computer and headed home. But first I closed the file cabinet drawer that had been tormenting me.

Katie must have found an exciting photography spot because she wasn't home yet. She was a freelance photographer, sometimes taking specific jobs, and sometimes doing her own thing and hoping people would buy her pictures at showcases. I had been worried in college that she would be broke within a year, but that girl had talent; she could hardly take enough photos to keep up with the demand for her work.

A package was sitting outside the door when I returned, and I decided to wait until Katie got home to open it in case it was for her. Oddly, it had no postal markings, or any markings at all. Just a brown box taped shut.

"What's that?" Katie asked when she arrived.

"I don't know. It was sitting on the doormat when I got home."

"Well open it!"

We held our breaths as I cut the tape with a pair of scissors and opened the box. I almost forgot to keep breathing.

It was the copy of Grimm fairy tales I had shown Sergio the day we met.

"Oh," I gasped.

"It's beautiful," Katie said. "I wonder who it's from."